


Gonna Make Your Life So Sweet

by vintageprayers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintageprayers/pseuds/vintageprayers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshots, incomplete plots, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky/Darcy: Elevator Love Letter

The first time Darcy went to a bar was her nineteenth birthday, with a freshly printed fake ID and her best friend at her side. She felt pretty and happy and tipsy in the kind of way that makes people confident, and she lifted her hair off her neck to pull it into a ponytail while she was sitting at the bar. The guy who tapped her on the shoulder and asked if he could buy her a drink with an obnoxiously charming smile was about twenty years too old and _way_ too smug to not have seen her mark.

She learned quickly not to wear her hair up, she added scarves to her wardrobe, and if she went to bar, her taser went too.

It didn’t cut down on the number of guys who wanted to get her drunk, but it did stop them from making exaggerated _oh my god, it’s you_ faces at whatever she said in response.

She never really understood that in the first place. Presumably the idea was to get naked with her, but she has no idea what the plan was supposed to be when whatever she had said in response didn’t match up with the barfly’s words. Assuming they even had words in the first place. Either way it was a ridiculous plan and she has no idea why men even try it.

She would assume it had something to do with her tits blinding them and making their brains leak out their ears or something, but apparently there are whole websites dedicated to giving idiotic men tips on how to trick women into thinking they’d found their soulmate. It’s disgusting and awful and just. Ew.

The whole thing made her incredibly cynical about the likelihood of her actually wanting to be with someone who would use such a tired, over-used pick up line. Never mind that person actually being her soulmate. “Can I buy you a drink?” _Really?_

Darcy has a decent amount of pride, and she’d never fall for someone that unoriginal.

Jane told her over and over that it wasn’t that bad, especially considering Darcy’s words are at least in a recognizable language, but then Jane found out that her soulmate is an alien/god/prince with an eight-pack, so Darcy feels free to be retroactively bitter about all of Jane’s complaining.

At this point, she’s heard her words directed at her so many times that anyone wanting to claim the role of her stupid soulmate would need to provide two different forms of government issued ID, an in-person visual inspection of their own words and three letters of reference attesting to their character. And maybe a personal statement promising to be less cliché in the future.

Even then, they would be on probation.

So really, it’s not Darcy’s fault that she doesn’t put much stock in her words. The entire world is clearly conspiring to make her roll her eyes whenever she hears them, and she doesn’t even bother coming up with something original to say in response anymore. If her stupid soulmate wanted originality, they should have thought of that before. Or in the future. Whatever. Honestly, soulmarks are just fucking confusing.

So again, not her fault.

She’s sitting at her assigned table at the fundraiser, wondering how inappropriate it would be to pull out her e-reader, when she decides it totally doesn’t matter, especially since Jane, who is the only reason she’s there in the first place, has abandoned her to go schmooze with Dr. Banner. And besides, Merry and Pippin are just about to meet Treebeard, which is one of the best parts. She would _totally_ live in an Ent-house, even if she’s way too short for a six-foot tall table.

She’s just about to pull her tablet out of her purse when someone pulls out the chair two seats over from her and she hears those stupid words.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She sighs irritably. “It’s an open bar,” she says, not looking up from her bag.

“Huh.” Mystery guy sounds pleasantly surprised, and not even in that fake-shocked way that says he’s seen her mark. Her hand goes to her neck automatically. Her hair is still covering the skin.

She looks up finally, and - well. _Okay_ then.

If she has to spend the rest of forever with a cheap come-on tattooed on her neck, she supposes it might be worth it if this guy’s the consolation prize. Tall, dark and wearing the _hell_ out of that suit is smirking at her and tapping the fingers of a metal hand - oh.

“Seriously?” she says.

“Guess so,” he says with a shrug.

“My name’s Darcy.” She moves to the seat between them and extends a hand, and he grasps it, squeezing firmly before letting go.

“Bucky,” he says in response.

“I’m gonna need to see your mark,” she says officiously. “And some ID.” She graciously lets him off the hook for the reference letters, but only because a decades-long friendship with Captain America is kind of a glowing recommendation in its own right.

He squints at her. “You think I’m lying,” he states.

“I think that if you had come up with something more original then I wouldn’t have to worry about it.” She gestures at him. “Let’s see it.”

“Let’s see yours,” he counters.

She rolls her eyes and lifts her hair, twisting to show him the back of her neck. He whistles lowly.

She turns back to him. “Chop chop,” she says with an impatient gesture.

“How do you know it’s not someplace indecent?” The corner of his lips turns up, and okay, yeah, Darcy has standards, but also he’s kind of testing them with the way he’s sprawled over that chair. And who knew the combo of a rumpled suit and a messy bun could work so well? 

“Don’t care,” she decides.

His smirk widens and he starts unbuttoning his dress shirt like he’s putting on a goddamn strip tease. Which she wouldn’t say no to anyways, so whatever. He gets through about half the buttons before pulling the material to one side, showing her his words etched just over his pec and slightly mangled by scar tissue.

She frowns and he quickly moves to cover it up. She darts her hands out, grabbing his wrists to stop him, all the while keeping her eyes on his words. _Her_ words.

“Wow,” she says. “ _Wow_.”

He doesn’t protest when she takes her hand off one wrist to trace the letters, even if his muscles tense up.

“I think this counts as a date,” she says absently, running her fingers over the raised tissue.

“What?”

“A date,” she repeats. “We’re both in formal wear and we know each other’s names and there was dinner involved at some point.”

“Okay,” he says cautiously.

“I don’t sleep with people I don’t know,” she says, and then tears her eyes away from his skin to look up at him.

“But we know each other?” he clarifies, looking adorably confused.

She nods. “Sure. And then there’ll be all the talking from here to my apartment - a solid getting-to-know-you period.” She grabs her bag and stands up, and he moves to button his shirt. She shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she says.

“A few minutes ago you wanted to see my ID,” he reminds her.

“Yeah, but then I decided fuck it, you know? Who cares if the government recognizes your existence?” She smiles winningly at him and he breathes out a laugh.

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Well that makes two of us.” She stares pointedly at his metal hand. “Come on, I’ve got like fifteen more minutes tops before these shoes completely cut off my circulation and you have to carry me out of here.” She pauses. “Actually that sounds good too.”

“I think we’re already drawing enough attention,” he says, glancing down to his shirt.

“Nah,” she dismisses. “Everyone’s still trying not to stare at Banner. I think they’re half hoping he hulks out just to make this shindig less of a bore.”

He follows her out of the event hall to the elevator, frowning when she presses the button for the residences instead of the lobby.

“You live here?”

She shrugs. “I guess? It’s kind of weird. _I live at Stark Tower, darling_ ,” she says in an exaggerated snooty voice. “Now quick, we’ve got like twenty more floors to get to know each other. What’s your favorite color, what are your hopes and dreams, boxers or briefs,” she fires off.

“Um.” He looks overwhelmed. “I don’t really know,” he says honestly.

“Huh. Well that’s interesting.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Interesting.”

“Okay, we’ll go more basic. Why’d you hit on me?”

He pauses. “You’re really beautiful,” he says with a shrug.

“Ooh, nice answer,” she says. “You’re really starting to make up for the shitty pick-up line.”

He rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t a pick-up line,” he mutters.

“Sure thing, bub,” she says brightly, and then the elevator jolts to a stop. Bucky grabs her arm, pulling her in tight to his chest and bracing both of them against the wall.

There’s a pause where her heart thuds embarrassingly loudly and she realizes she’s probably mauling Bucky’s arm with her nails she’s gripping him so tight.

Nothing happens, and she tries to move, but Bucky just holds her tighter.

“This is a night of fucking clichés,” she grumbles and Bucky shushes her, presumably listening for assassins in the elevator shaft or something.

“JARVIS?” she whispers.

“Miss Lewis,” she hears in an equally hushed tone. “There has been an incident in the event hall. As a security measure the building is in lock down and all elevators have been shut down.”

“An incident,” she repeats. “What the hell is an _incident_?”

“It appears that several members of the waitstaff are enemy operatives.”

“How does this keep _happening_ ,” she groans. “Is everyone okay? Shit, _Jane_ , is Jane okay?”

“Dr. Foster is fine,” the AI responds. “I believe she has been sequestered in a safe room. Dr. Banner, however, has transformed and is currently… dealing with the infiltrators. It appears that there have been no other casualties.”

“Shit,” she breathes. “Shit. I probably shouldn’t joke about the Hulk anymore, huh?”

“Probably not, Miss Lewis.” She can hear the judging in the AI’s tone and honestly, _whatever_ , Tony makes more jokes about Banner than anyone else in the universe. This is totally not her fault and Darcy doesn’t believe in jinxing. It's totally a coincidence and not at all cosmic retribution that she made a tasteless joke and now she's stuck in a metal box for the foreseeable future.

Bucky’s arm loosens on her enough that she can sink down to the floor of the elevator. He sits next to her, and when she looks over, he has a gun in his hand.

“Where the hell were you hiding that?” she snaps.

“Ankle holster,” he says, his voice tight.

She scrunches her face up, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “Fuck. Sorry. I get mean when I’m scared.”

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says in a gentler tone, breaking the momentary silence. “Your friend is safe. And I’ll - ” He laughs softly to himself. “I’ll keep you safe,” he finishes.

“Okay.” She shifts so her knee touches his. “I’m going to be a little scared anyways,” she says. “Just so you know.”

“Okay,” he repeats. “Can I - is there something I can do?”

“Tell me your stupid favorite color,” she says, swallowing.

He nods and taps his metal fingers against his knee. “I like that red.” He jerks his chin toward her dress.

“It’s a good red,” she acknowledges, gripping her knees close to her chest. He hums in agreement.

“I’m kind of scared of elevators,” she says after a quiet moment. “I’ve seen way too many movies and there was that scene in Resident Evil and then Final Destination 2 and Mission:Impossible, and the guy in Six Feet Under - ” She stops herself. “Normal elevator trips are fine and all, but malfunctioning elevators are death traps. Suspended mid-air fucking death traps.” She looks at him and he’s frowning.

“This elevator isn’t malfunctioning,” he says in an even tone. “Right, JARVIS?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Right. And once the situation’s been dealt with, the elevators will be turned back on and we’ll get out. And I promise I won’t make you crawl out if we’re stuck between floors, so no one’s getting cut in half.”

She eyes him and he shrugs. “I like zombie movies,” he says simply.

“You like - okay, I have a little more faith in this soulmate thing now,” she says.

He smiles and knocks his knee against hers and she leans into him to rest her head on his shoulder. “I get to do this, right? ‘Cause of the soulmate thing?”

She feels his chest move with a laugh she doesn’t hear. “Yeah,” he says. “You can do whatever you want.”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she mumbles. “S’gonna bite you in the ass.”

The weight of his arm settles over her shoulders, anchoring her to his side. “Looking forward to it,” he says.

“And you still owe me a drink. Like, a big one.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she can feel the pressure of his lips against the crown of her head, and his metal hand settles against the back of her neck, holding her close.


	2. Bucky/Darcy: Say Yes

Darcy sees a glint of metal, panics and speed walks toward the nearest door, closing it behind her. Rob the biologist has his dick out. She takes a cursory glance around the room.

“Um?” Rob says, cupping his junk in his hands.

“Dude. Get out,” she says, her eyebrows raised. She gestures behind her at the door. “Now.”

He zips up in a hurry, twisting his hips away from her, and then rushes around her.

“Wash your hands, you cretin!” she calls out after him. She twists the lock on the door after he leaves and takes stock. She’s hiding in a men’s restroom. Darcy Lewis is hiding in a goddamn _men’s restroom_. At least it’s a restroom in Stark Tower, where the cleaning staff are paid well and it doesn’t smell like piss. And, since it’s a restroom in Stark Tower, there’s an actual honest to god sitting room past the sinks, with a couch and everything. Chances are high this portion of the tower was designed by Tony and not Pepper, considering Pepper has too much sense to put fancy leather sofas in the vicinity of open urinals. Still, she’s glad for Tony’s ridiculous love for excess if it gives her the opportunity to wait Bucky out in relative comfort.

She’s fooling herself, really. There’s no “waiting out” when it comes to James Barnes. He’s like a dog with a bone. Or a former Soviet assassin who always gets his mark. Or man. Something other than mark because the word mark is kind of giving her hives right now.

Someone rattles the doorknob a few times, but other than that she sits in near silence for what feels like forever before deciding that whatever was waiting for her outside was better than this. Mostly it’s just that Darcy gets bored enough that she stops caring about her previous panic and seeks out whatever will stop the boredom.

Which is actually kind of how she lives her life in general, and she should probably address that sooner or later.

She opens the door and sees Bucky leaning against the opposite wall, his arms folded across his chest. He mouths the word _coward_ with a raised eyebrow and she shrugs.

He stays put, leaning against that stupid wall because he knows it looks good. Darcy secretly thinks he took classes on how to lean against things, because he does it with a professional level of skill and practiced ease. And he definitely rolled up the sleeves of his henley on purpose. And god, his stupid hair. Stupid, stupid hair. It should look ridiculous pulled back into a messy bun, but it mostly just looks ridiculously hot. This isn’t a casual look, it’s a freaking strategic attack on her good senses.

She knows he’s doing it on purpose, but that doesn’t keep it from totally working.

“The john in the lobby has windows,” he advises as she approaches. “In case this becomes a habit.”

“Shut up,” she advises right back.

She’s about within arm’s reach when she stops, folding her own arms across her chest. He glances down and she sighs, readjusting so her arms go over her tits instead of just propping them up.

He loosens his arms to scratch lightly over his ribs and she scowls. Underneath his nails and the grey fabric is the same red symbol she’s had on her hip her entire life and she can’t tell if he’s drawing attention to it on purpose or if she’s just hyperfocused on its existence in general.

“I have to say,” he continues, “I’m used to people avoiding me, but you’re kind of hurting my feelings here, doll.”

“No, I’m not,” she says automatically.

He grins at her denial and bends to the floor to retrieve the cup behind his boots and hand it to her. She takes it cautiously, glancing back and forth between his face and the cup before taking a sip and frowning. It tastes amazing (he even put cinnamon in it, which should freak her out because she definitely didn’t tell him how she takes her coffee) but it’s barely lukewarm.

“It was hot when I bought it,” he says pointedly and she sighs.

“You gonna walk me to work or what?” she says finally. He holds out his arm and she rolls her eyes before dropping the strap of her messenger bag onto the crook of his elbow. He doesn’t even pause, he just lifts it to his other shoulder and reaches out again, this time grabbing her free hand and lacing his fingers through hers.

“You’re pushy, you know that?” she says, but she doesn’t pull away. She should, not least because he _is_ pushy and if he is actually her soulmate then he needs to learn who’s in charge here, but he did buy her coffee and wait for her for over ten minutes while she hid in a bathroom. And it feels kind of nice holding his hand. Mostly weird, since they’ve worked in the same building for nearly six months and barely ever talked, and he’s a reformed assassin with memory issues and superhero BFFs, but still. It’s pretty nice.

“I’ve seen you shirtless before,” she accuses. She has - he and Steve somehow wind up shirtless _everywhere_. It’s like they made a pact when they were kids to get unbelievably ripped and find a way to broadcast it to the world as often as possible.

He shrugs. “I wear a bandage over it.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “ _Why?_ ”

He shrugs again and says nothing, and she has to fight the urge to smack him. Or kiss him, because she always did have a thing for the moody, quiet types.

Plus there’s that kind of weird, primal thing where he’s got her mark branded on him and some backward part of her brain wants to claim him in front of a large audience and then drag him back to her cave. Her apartment-cave where she keeps her bed and the scarves from her drama club phase. There’s a beret somewhere in there too, but that doesn’t really factor into her fantasy.

He stays silent as they walk to her office.

“So it doesn’t bother you that I only saw it because of a supremely unlikely coincidence? Like, if you weren’t in medical at the same exact time that I was, I’d never have seen it. Possibly _ever_. And all because you like wearing bandages as accessories.”

He gives her a look out of the corner of his eye, and they both stop at her door.

“I saw yours three weeks ago when you were reaching for the cereal boxes in the kitchen,” he says plainly, and she opens her mouth in outrage. He hands over her bag and tilts his head. “It just took me a while,” he finishes. He puts his hands in his pockets and takes a few steps backwards before turning and walking away with a smile.

“Coward!” she calls after him. A moment after he disappears down the hallway her phone rings with a text, and she juggles her coffee and her bag to pull it out.

_a coward wouldn’t ask you to dinner tonight_

She rolls her eyes, but she still texts him back. And maybe, possibly, at the back of her mind, wonders how long it'll take to get him back to her apartment and get a closer look at that mark. 


	3. Bucky/Darcy: 69 Love Songs, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not For All My Little Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a soulmark fic, but sort of a study buddy trope. I've been listening to the Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, and I have a few ideas for some of them (I will not actually be writing 69 fics for this, that would be ridiculous and against my no WIP oath).

Everything is strange here. Strange and bright. No matter what time of night, the lights are always on and someone is awake, making noise and introducing new variables. The light could be an advantage, but the people are unpredictable and… friendly. The (familiar and not familiar) man with the facial hair talks too much, and most of what he says to him includes attempts to touch his (Hydra’s) arm.

It’s disconcerting.

Captain - the man on the - _Steve_ says that he can relax, that no one here will hurt him, but Steve worked for SHIELD and was unaware of its connections to Hydra. He also says that he should cut his hair. Steve is an unreliable source of information.

Bucky has no mission. He is awake and functional and he has no mission. Until he is given a mission, he will train and research. He will remain alert. He will not _relax_.

He hears footsteps behind him - light footsteps in bare feet and the swish of cotton pants - and he stiffens on his chair.

“Dude,” a woman’s voice says, “you should sleep. I totally wish I was sleeping right now.”

She is on his right side, approximately six feet away. She is about five and a half feet tall, with brown hair. She is wearing - he looks away. She is not a threat and thus not of interest.

“Seriously. They should include a waiver with grad school applications. ‘By applying here you agree to never sleep again’.” She moves into his line of vision. She is pouring a cup of coffee. He frowns. Bucky has been sitting in this seat for three hours and ten minutes, and the pot has not been refilled since he sat down.

She shrugs. “Is it sad that I’m too tired to make a fresh pot?” She drinks from the cup and he leans back slightly when she makes a face. “Gross, but still caffeinated.” She tilts her head when he says nothing. “Well, alright then,” she says with another shrug. “Have a good night, dude. I better not see you the next time I come out here.” She makes an exaggerated stern face as she says this. It is not a real threat.

.

Steve showed him a room the day he came to Stark Tower and told him it was his. It is part of Steve’s apartment - so that Steve can watch him, so he can make sure Bucky doesn’t kill any innocent people - and it has a lock on the door. It locks from the inside, which means that he can lock people out, but they can’t lock him in.

It has windows, but they are made of bulletproof glass and they do not open.

The kitchen is better. There are three exits, two of which lead to stairwells. He does not tell Steve that he has hidden a PSM in a crevice beneath the couch.

The woman likes the kitchen as well. She tells him that she is studying, which is like training. Training requires the replacement of fluids, carbohydrates and protein.

The woman drinks coffee and eats something she calls “hot pockets”.

Tonight she has brought her work with her.

“You don’t mind, do you? I can’t stay in my room anymore, it’s making my brain go numb.” She waits for him, and when he says nothing, she puts her computer down on the counter and begins typing - long periods of clicks and longer intervals of silence and sighing.

She is sitting two seats down from his seat. She has three books with her, each of which is nearly two inches thick. Put together, they could stop a bullet from a .45 Auto, but only at a distance - Baron, the man who uses the recurve bow in the weapons locker, told him that he learned this on a television program.

The woman is not using them to stop bullets. She is hitting her head against one of them.

“What are you doing?”

She stops and turns her head slightly before lifting it to look at him. She looks startled, and slightly deranged.

“There’s a quote somewhere in this book. Or maybe a different one. I don’t know anymore. It’s somewhere. I read it once and now I need it and I can’t find it, and now it’s two in the morning and I won’t be able to finish this chapter until I find it.”

He swallows and she shakes her head. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “I’m sleep-deprived and brain dead and I can’t function anymore.” He doesn’t think she’s talking to him any longer.

“You need to find something,” he repeats.

She sighs. “Yeah.”

“I can - ” He stops and clears his throat. He can help. She has a mission and he doesn’t, and he can help. “I can help.”

“You don’t need to - ” She stops talking when he takes the book from her.

“What do you need to find?”

.

He likes helping the woman - Darcy. She said her name was Darcy. And after a few nights of helping her, she starts to bring him things. Mostly food, but sometimes other books - books that aren’t for her, but for him.

He only eats the food after she eats first, but it’s always good.

She talks to him about her mission - her thesis, she says. She calls it an “interdisciplinary approach to the problem of civil rights and social media” and then she starts talking with her hands, gesturing broadly and then running them through her hair when she can’t find the right words.

When she stops typing and makes frustrated sounds, he asks her about the books she gives him, and they discuss fiction. She talks and he mostly listens, but she has interesting things to say, even if he sometimes disagrees. She gives him a book called The Princess Bride and tells him if he likes it that they can watch the movie, but then she groans and says something about never having the time to watch movies again, and she puts her head on the counter.

He does like the book, even if it’s strange - of all the names he’s encountered, Humperdinck makes the least sense. It’s clear that Darcy loves it - the pages are all worn and creased, and there are underlined sections. She says she’s had it since she was a kid, and then she flips through it until she gets to a page with hearts scribbled all over it and tells him that she had been madly in love with Buttercup when she was a girl, even if, as Darcy says it, “she was kind of a snob.”

After five weeks, she comes to the counter without her computer or her books and tells him she’s done with a smile that shows her teeth.

“It’s being reviewed,” she says, still smiling. She looks exhausted and elated.

He frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s part of the process - I’m done writing now, so my professors have to read it and tell me if it sucks or not and then if it _doesn’t_ suck I get to graduate and put some letters after my name. I wanted to put you in the acknowledgements section, but then I thought that would probably be bad for the whole confidentiality thing, so you’re mentioned, just not, you know, by name.” She’s still smiling.

“You mentioned me,” he states.

“Yeah, well, sort of you. And it’s not like anyone will ever read it, but you helped, so…” She shrugs. “You’re Jacob Brown, in case you were wondering.”

He says nothing and her smile fades.

“Is that okay? I didn’t think - shit, did I fuck up?” She looks worried. And embarrassed. “I can edit it out, it’s not a big deal to edit it. I mean, I turned it in early, so I can just print out new copies and take back the old ones.”

“Don’t,” he says. “Please.”

“Okay. Cool. Good.” She is relieved now, which is better.

He nods and says nothing. Her mission has been completed, and he is no longer needed.

“So… did you want to read it? I mean, you don’t have to. It’s probably super boring, but - ” She stops and sighs, and now she looks embarrassed again.

“It’s not necessary,” he reminds her.

“Right. Right.” She nods and smiles again, but this time there are no teeth.

.

Steve gives him a plastic card and tells him that it will give him access to money - his money. The United States government owes him money from before, and a lawyer has helped Steve retrieve it for him.

Bucky has little need for money - the kitchen is always full of food and the weapons locker has everything he could need, but Steve tells him that it’s his and he can do whatever he wants with it.

He leaves the tower and tries to decide what he wants. It’s easier when he’s walking - small decisions (a coffee from a truck parked outside the tower - he watches the woman pour it from the same large thermos that had produced the coffee for the man in front of him in line) make the bigger ones easier. He buys a jacket to replace the one with scorch marks, a watch that is meant to be waterproof up to two hundred meters, and soap that smells like citrus.

A woman at the store with the soap tries to spray him with something that smells like alcohol, but she lowers her hand when he looks at her.

The store next to the soap store sells used items - antiques, it says. He wants to walk by it, but there’s a pendant in the window. He searches for the word in his mind before he settles on it - cameo. It’s a cameo pendant.

He has no use for it. He doesn’t _want_ it. He is supposed to be buying things he wants.

He buys it anyways, and when Steve asks about his purchases he hides it in his pocket.

.

Darcy isn’t in the kitchen at night anymore. He sees her coming and going during the day, but there are all these other people around, talking to her and touching her and taking up all her time. She looks to him sometimes, but it’s more cautious.

It’s better this way, he decides. He can focus on his own training if she’s not there.

This mindset lasts for a few days, and then Steve’s voice starts up again in his head, asking him what he wants.

It’s the only explanation he has for putting the pendant in a small box and placing it in her mail slot, with a note that says:

_Congratulations._   
_\- B._


	4. Bucky/Darcy: Take My Heart With You

“What are you doing?”

Darcy doesn’t look up from the material in her hands, instead mumbling “nothing” around the needle between her teeth.

Bucky looks over her shoulder at the dark cloth, his brow furrowed. “Are you _embroidering_?”

“Yes. And you’re interrupting,” she says after pulling the needle from her mouth.

“That’s… that’s my jacket. You’re embroidering my jacket,” he accuses.

She sighs and glares up at him. “Seriously? Out of all the things you’ve caught me doing, you’re outraged about _this_?”

“I’m not outraged,” he denies. “I’m just - is that a heart?” She covers the design with her palm and gives him death eyes.

“None of your business,” she says.

Bucky settles into the chair opposite hers and raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it’s my business. It’s my _jacket_.”

“It’s only the lining,” she says. “Don’t be such a baby.” And then she stuffs the jacket into her lap and refuses to let him near it until she finishes. He tries telling her that he’ll get cold without it, that it’s his _favorite_ and no, he can’t just wear a different one, but she insists on holding it hostage.

She’s a fantastic hider, too, which is kind of infuriating. He’s pretty sure she enlisted help, because it’s nowhere in their apartment, and he’s looked. At first it was just curiosity, but now it’s a burning need to know what the hell she’s done to his jacket. He’s not lying about it being his favorite - it’s worn in all the right spots and it fits perfectly and he has amazing memories of Darcy wearing it in different states of undress. It’s a great jacket, and he wants it back.

He’s called out on a mission two days later, a basic info retrieval job that he’s only being included in because Steve likes to bring him on the bloodless missions every once in a while. He’ll probably spend half his time listening to Steve talk about how great Sam is, which is fine by him.

Just before he leaves, Darcy comes running down the hallway, a bundle of black material tucked between her arm and her chest.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly.

“You alright?”

“Fine, fine,” she says with an impatient gesture. “It’s just - I finished.” She unfolds his jacket and he takes it from her as he brushes a kiss against her lips.

“Bucky,” Steve calls. “Gotta go.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and kisses her again, just to piss Steve off. “Be back soon,” he promises.

He shrugs the jacket on over his shirt and turns to follow Steve. It’s not until they’re both in the quinjet that he thinks to pull the jacket open. In red thread, right over his heart, are the words _hey stranger_. He traces his fingers over the words and then down to the image in grey: a stylized heart with a circle missing in the center.

He closes his eyes and places his thumb over the circle, lost in the memory of the day he met Darcy - the feeling of her blood soaking his gloves, the dazed look in her eyes when she said her first words to him. _Hey stranger._ Like she’d been waiting for him.

It took fourteen hours of surgery for him to have the opportunity to say anything back. The scar on her chest is as much his mark now as the words that arc over it. He can spend hours looking, touching, obsessing over the puckered skin, tracing it and remembering how close it came. How easy it would have been to lose her before he ever had her. 

Steve nudges him with his elbow. “What’s that?”

Bucky opens his eyes, but keeps his fingers on the thread. “Darce,” he replies quietly, and Steve grins.

“Did I tell you what Sam is doing for our anniversary?” he starts. “Tandem sky-diving in New Zealand,” he finishes without waiting for a response. “Tony helped him set it up.”

Bucky snorts. “Makes so much sense that your soulmate is an adrenaline junkie, too,” he says, rolling his eyes. He jabs his side with two fingers. “You’re his responsibility now, got it? You two can jump outta planes for fun on your own time.”

Steve laughs and keeps talking about Sam's plans - mountain climbing and bungee jumping and a dozen other things that could get him killed. Bucky keeps his fingers running over the thread and focuses on getting back home.


	5. Bucky/Darcy: 69 Love Songs, Part II

Darcy comes into the kitchen that night, wearing the pendant on a long chain over her pyjama top. She sits next to him at the counter and he can feel the warmth from her body. He watches her touch the pendant, turning it back and forth between her fingers.

“You didn’t need to do this,” she says quietly.

“I know.” I wanted to, he thinks.

“Well, thank you. It’s beautiful.” She pulls it away from her chest to look at it and he watches her. After a moment she draws in a breath. “You have time for a movie?” She looks nervous again.

He shrugs. “I think the counter will be fine without me.” She bites her lips and her eyes sparkle.

“Yeah, okay, Barnes. Pull out the humor _now_ ,” she says, huffing out a silent laugh. “Come on.” She slides down from the stool, still holding the pendant with one hand.

She winces when they torture Westley, and her hand hovers over the remote, but he takes it from between them on the couch, setting it on the table where she can’t reach it. She doesn’t need to worry about him. It’s a film - nothing more.

“It’s fine,” he says when she moves to reach for it again a few scenes later. “I’ve seen worse.”

She frowns at that, and her shoulders stay tensed until the man is rescued. He snorts when the little boy declares that _someone_ has to kill Humperdinck and Darcy’s shoulders relax slightly.

When the film ends, neither of them stand, and Darcy fiddles with the pendant again.

“I’d like - ” he starts, and then reconsiders. “I want to do this again. With you.” He watches her face intently. The corner of her lips turns up slightly, and even in the dark room he can see the color in her cheeks.

“I - yeah. Yes. I’d like that a lot.”

It’s several days before he talks to her again, but every time he sees her, she’s wearing the pendant. There’s a warmth in his chest when he sees her holding it in her fist or spinning it on its chain.

Steve elbows him lightly as they both eat breakfast at the counter.

“She’s nice,” he says quietly, subtly jerking his chin towards where Darcy is sitting at the table.

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” Steve doesn’t say anything when Bucky ducks his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically just self-indulgent bandwagon hopping.


End file.
